


Sublimation

by voodoochild



Category: The Borgias
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Rape/Non-con References, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-22
Updated: 2011-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-19 16:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her dreams remain the one place that is entirely hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sublimation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **thatyourefuse** , for the prompt: "like an angel you'll come/in a dream, blessed one/and make me joyfully numb".

Afterward, she drifts.

Both Giulia and Mama had warned her, petted her hair and told her that her marital duties may be unpleasant, and Lucrezia would laugh if she had the strength to draw breath. Unpleasant. As if all she had to worry about were Lord Sforza's breath or snoring or sleepwalking.

It had been very bad tonight. Sforza atop her, huffing and puffing and slapping her bottom when she pleased him and her face when she didn't. She had learned to turn her face into the pillow to hide the tears, and bite her lip to keep from screaming or weeping too loudly. Her third nightdress has been ripped right down the middle, and the sheets are rough on her bruised skin. She does not dare to get up or call Francesca in, even for the hot bath she desperately needs. Her husband would be displeased.

Her husband is always displeased.

So she stays as still as she can, burying her face into her hair, the only thing that still smells and feels like herself. She curls her fingers into the clean linen near her pillow and edges inch by inch away from her snoring, sated husband. Tries to breathe and calm her pounding heart.

She's home - sometimes it's their villa in Rome and other times it's the _hacienda_ in Valencia - and it's summer. There are fresh dates from the Moorish traders, honey from their bees, and Cesare is being awful and swiping the honey onto her nose before she can duck away. He's laughing at her - _too slow, baby sis_ \- and drinking wine out of one of Mama's fine glasses.

(The pillow is rough against her mouth, but she cannot let her husband hear her cry.)

The sun is bright, and Cesare squints up at it. She burns so easily, so they run - she flees, he chases - into the house, clattering up the stairs and into Cesare's room. Lucrezia has always loved her brother's room; how it was bigger than hers, how many things he had collected in his travels, the smells of candlewax and sweat and nothing like her own perfumed bedroom.

He tumbles her into the sheets, laughing and kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. She remembers when all she knew of men and women were those innocently, achingly beautiful moments with Cesare. She should feel shame, but this is her imagining, and in her imagining, she may do what she wishes without consequences.

And thus she presses her mouth to his; a pure lover's kiss, complete surrender.


End file.
